The Finger writes, and, having writ,
Allows you to read your obit;
Doom gives you the finger,
And says you won’t linger
Much longer in all of this shit.
That Bowl which we call the Sky
Is a covering lid they apply,
Whereunder we crawl
To the petri dish wall,
Then run out of food and die.
The Big Bang determined the text
Which we read, yet still get perplexed:
The way it exploded,
Right then encoded
Whatever you’re going to do next.
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